


Interrogation

by apparitionism



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apparitionism/pseuds/apparitionism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By request, an oldie hauled over from Tumblr: in which Pete interrogates Helena about her intentions; Helena interrogates Myka about her feelings about those intentions; and, finally, Pete and Claudia try to interrogate Helena about her further intentions with regard to putting the initially mentioned intentions into practice but end up engaging in an extremely consequential argument involving anthropomorphized candy. No S4 or S5 angst-inducing shenanigans were considered in the writing of this silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pete sighed. He breathed in loudly, then exhaled in a sort of muttery groan. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He leaned back and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his knuckles, one by one.

No reaction from H.G. Nothing. Not even the little head tilt that would show she heard him and was massively annoyed.

So he sighed again and said, “Okay, I get it. You want to keep pretending I’m not here. Go ahead. But at some point we’re gonna have to have a conversation, just you and me, about the thing you don’t want to talk about.”

“Really?” H.G. asked, without looking up from her book. “Why?”

“Because I want to talk about it. Wait, that’s wrong. I don’t actually want to talk about it at all. But we’re going to anyway, because it is part of my job as big-brother-type guy to get it out in the open.”

“Really?” H.G. asked again. She still didn’t look up. “Why?”

“Didn’t your brother try to take care of you? Make sure that you weren’t getting yourself into any kind of bad situations?”

“If he had tried,” H.G. said, “I would have knocked him unconscious. As I suspect Myka is likely to do to you, should she hear about any conversation of the sort you seem to be proposing. Which I would imagine is all the more reason to avoid such a conversation, wouldn’t you?”

Pete forged ahead. “It is,” he agreed, “but that’s exactly why I’m doing it anyway. So this time I’ll actually ask the question, and I’ll do it in a way you might even understand: what are your intentions?”

“My intentions.” H.G. looked directly at Pete, and for just a second, he thought she might bust out laughing. Instead, she made her face blank again. “My intentions are, with profundity, none of your concern.”

“Which I knew you’d say, and which is bull. They are with profundity totally my concern, particularly because of what happened last time, when nobody really let me in on the _full scope_ of what was happening and it turned out you _broke her heart_. We’re not going to talk about the other stuff you did,” he went on hurriedly, so she wouldn’t even be tempted to start in on the Kelly apologies again. He didn’t need to keep being reminded of all that. “What we’re going to talk about is, seriously, what your intentions are, this time around.”

“I still don’t see why I should tell you anything about my intentions, assuming I even have any. Perhaps you should be asking Myka what her intentions are.”

“Why would I do that? I’m not trying to protect you from her. If she feels like breaking your heart, I say more power to her. Then you’d be even.”

H.G. did give him a kind of snarly lip-curl at that one. Which was fair. But then she said, “If Myka wishes to lead me on, then yes, more power to her. But surely you see that I have no reason at all to repeat my past misdeeds. No reason at all. Surely you see that I value…”

Pete was shocked to see her eyes getting watery. H.G. was _crying_? That was nuts; she never cried, did she? But then… no, she did cry. Over Myka, mostly, though now that he was thinking about it, maybe one time about her kid? “Man, don’t do that,” he hurriedly said. “This is just man-to-man, here, or man-to-time-traveling-nutjob. We’re not talking about _feelings_.”

It put the brakes on the tears, anyway. H.G. squinted at him and said, “My intentions would seem to have _something_ to do with my feelings. In the absence of said feelings, I doubt I would have any intentions at all.”

“Okay, I was right; it’s not man-to-man, because guys have intentions without feelings all the time. But, so, you actually do have feelings, which, like I said, we’re not here to talk about, but it’s probably good that you have them.”

“I do have them,” H.G. said.

“And so your intentions are…?”

“To keep having them?” she said, like it was a guess.

“I take back everything I ever said about you being a _genius_ supervillain. You clearly just stumbled into the whole supervillain thing, because you’re really not all that bright. Are you going to marry her or what?”

H.G. stared at him. He was a little proud of himself for making her speechless; that hardly ever happened. But then she kept on being speechless, so he finally had to say, “So are you?”

“Going to marry her?” H.G. asked, again like it was a guess.

“That’s the question on the table, yeah. You could try answering it.”

“I… have no idea.”

“Because two chicks can do that, these days. Dudes, too. Which I know you know about, so don’t play dumb. Even some dopey supervillain knows about gay marriage.”

“Certainly, but knowing that something exists and actually believing that it applies to one’s own life are actually very different things. I had not thought of marriage as being something that Myka and I… it just…” She bit her lip, just like Myka would have done. “I am being completely honest, Pete.”

Pete knew she’d said his name to show that she was serious. “Okay, _Helena_ ,” he said, to show that he’d noticed, “but now you’re thinking about it, I can tell. And so are you?”

“Am I what? Thinking about it? I assure you, yes I am.”

“No! Are you going to marry her?”

“Pete, I can still barely grasp the idea, and yet you expect me to have made such a momentous decision in less than ten seconds?”

“Why not? I mean, if your intentions are honorable, if you’re a standup guy—or, I guess, a standup nutjob—then this is the logical next step.”

“I fail to see why I play the role of the ‘guy’ in your scenario. If Myka wishes us to marry, she’s perfectly capable of bringing up the subject herself.”

“It’s like we’re talking about two different people. The Myka I know is probably not going to say, ‘Hey, H.G. Wells, let’s get hitched.’ She’s still barely processed the part where H.G. Wells is a woman.”

“I assure you, she’s processed that quite thoroughly.” She grinned.

“Oh jeez. Will you quit it with stuff like that? You wouldn’t say that to her actual sibling, so don’t say it to me either.” He stopped for a minute and thought about what he’d just said. “Never mind. You totally would say that to her actual sibling.”

H.G. waved her hand. “As if you would refrain from similar comments.”

He shook his head. “No. Wait, I mean yes. Wait, what? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is, you should start believing that the whole marriage thing applies to you, and you should figure out if you think it applies to you and Myka. Because if it doesn’t, then it’s time for you to step off and let her find somebody who wants to spend the rest of their life with her.”

She stared at him. Then she said, “Such as… who? Honestly, I didn’t think that you had that sort of interest in Myka, and all this talk of siblings has certainly reinforced that impression, but now…”

It took Pete almost a full minute to process what she was saying. “Me? You think I’m doing this so you’ll clear out of the way for _me_? You really are that nutjob I was talking about earlier, if that’s what you think. You don’t even really think it anyway. You’re just messing with me.”

“I am not,” she said. “It’s simply that there are no other candidates for the position of the one spending his or her life with Myka. At present. You mean she should go out looking for someone else, if I don’t intend to… to make her my wife, as it were?”

“Pretty much.”

“Have you never been involved in a complicated relationship, Agent Lattimer?”

Uh oh. “I think all my relationships have been pretty complicated.”

“And have those complications been _eased_ at all by your association with the Warehouse?”

“No.” He saw where she was going with this. Which was all well and good, but that wasn’t the point. Myka was the point.

“And yet you expect me to be perfectly clear about where this relationship, mine and Myka’s, is going. Where it should go. But isn’t it the case, given recent events, that the two of us have earned a bit of time to simply enjoy each other’s company?”

“Well…”

“Without placing any expectations on each other, or on our bond? Pete. We have been to hell and back again—several times, it often seems. And there is no guarantee of our not becoming enmeshed in something similar. Tomorrow, next week. So pardon me if making enormous future plans has not been on my agenda. I don’t see you making plans to marry any of the young women you have dallied with recently, do I?”

“What? I’m just having some fun. Why would I get married?”

H.G. didn’t answer; she just gazed at him. In that “I have made my point” way.

He sighed. “You know it’s different. And you know exactly how it’s different. Come on. I’m just some lunky guy, and even I know that this thing you and Myka have is different. Myka’s not just messing around; she doesn’t do that anyway. But neither are you. We all know what you did for her, so now it’s time to man up and do the right thing.”

“Make an honest woman of her? Or of myself?”

“Whichever way you want to call that. I think it’d be more honest for everybody. And Artie might quit giving you the side-eye if you were married.”

H.G. snorted. “That is absurd. Artie will disapprove of this liaison until the end of his days.”

Pete had to admit that that was probably true. “But still, he can’t keep trying his not-so-subtle attempts to talk Myka out of it if she’s actually your spouse.”

“I suspect he intended you and Myka to become a couple. I suspect he thought that would benefit the Warehouse enormously.”

“You have got to quit talking about that like it could ever be a real thing. I’m telling you, it’s too weird. I love her, and she’s my family now, but the idea…” He shuddered. “Myka’s a great person, and anybody who tries to say otherwise to me gets my fist in their face. But the idea of anything _happening_ with her? It’s like, you would never be saying stuff like that to me about Claudia.”

“Of course not. That would be, as Claudia herself would say, all kinds of wrong.”

“Exactly. The idea of me and Myka is all kinds of wrong, not exactly the same kinds, but just as many.”

“I might say it to you about Mr. Jinks, however, if your interests lay in that direction.”

“That’d be fine, because it’s less kinds. Steve’s not like my brother. He’s my bro, but he’s not my brother. Do you figure that’s because I never had an actual brother? Like, I know what it’s like to have a sister, and Claudia and Myka are close enough to that that it feels almost the same, but I don’t know what having a brother feels like.” A thought struck him. “You had a brother. You wouldn’t want to hook up with me, right? Is it because I’m like your brother?”

H.G. looked skeptical, and he realized that he’d just sort of admitted to having a familial feeling about her… but now that he thought about it, that didn’t bother him too much. They’d been through a lot together, and the fact that he could forgive her, and she could accept that from him, well, that suggested they were on the road to being family. And of course if she married Myka, that’d kind of make H.G. his sister-in-law. He hadn’t considered it like that, but he was surprisingly okay with the idea.

“In the first place,” H.G. said, “you are nothing like my brother. For which you should thank the deities of your choice, because Charles was insufferable. But more to the point, you are correct in saying I would not want to ‘hook up with’ you. In the past, I might have said it was because you were not my type. But now… if I am being honest, and I am trying to do that more often these days, so, honestly, yes, I feel that our relationship has become more familial. We all certainly live in this house as if we were a family. A strange family, but nevertheless.”

“It’s true. This could be like a dorm, or even a frat house, but it isn’t.”

“I don’t know what those things are. Although I can guess. More a rooming house than a family home? Where we would all live our lives separately and come together only for meals? Actually, that was rather how Charles and I lived together in the house in London. He would give me such disapproving looks whenever we did cross paths that I generally attempted to avoid him altogether.”

“You really didn’t like the dude, huh. And I guess he didn’t like you either?”

“We got along well enough when we were children, but as we grew older, I believe I became… how would you say it? A bit much for him.”

“You’re ‘a bit much’ for everybody. Except Myka, I guess.”

“Come now. I’m not any sort of much anymore. At least, I try very hard not to be.”

Pete snorted. “Yeah, when you and Claudia come out of that workroom with some doohickey that you both swear is gonna revolutionize something or other, no, you’re not too much at all. See, except to Myka, because she always just rolls her eyes in that way she does and goes back to her book or whatever. And you and Claudia get a little deflated, but then you—and I mean _you_ , especially—try to talk her into believing that your new gadget is really, really the awesome. And then she gives in, and you get all happy again.”

H.G. looked at him like she’d never seen him before. It took her a minute to say anything, and when she did, it surprised him: “You are an observant man, Pete. And by that I mean, for a man, you are astonishingly observant.”

Pete shrugged. “I grew up around mostly women. You learn some stuff.”

“Apparently you do. I wish Charles had had half of your perception. I would have felt far less misunderstood. Do you know, he kept trying to marry me off? He said on several occasions that he had ‘more than one friend’ who ‘might be’ willing to take on such a creature as myself. I kept trying to explain my feelings on the matter, and yet he kept saying I could not possibly really feel that way, that I was simply being contrary. That I would become comfortable with the idea over time, as all women must. Can you imagine?”

“I dunno. Maybe if it had been me who was your brother, I’d’ve felt the same way; I mean, I don’t know where he was coming from. But it’s funny, right, that we both tried, or that he tried then and I’m trying now, to talk to you about marriage. Even if it’s from, like, different sides of the plate.”

“It is rather funny, when you put it that way. I will say that the case you make is far more convincing than anything Charles ever came up with.”

“I haven’t even made a case. I just asked you what you were gonna do.”

“You did, in fact, make a strong case for marriage: you suggested that I marry Myka. A strong case indeed.” She nodded her head, but Pete couldn’t tell if it was in a way that said “yes, I will be proposing to her shortly” or if she meant “you made your case, and it was fine, but don’t expect me to actually do anything about it.” He figured that at least he’d tried. He’d made her think about it, anyway, and he was pretty sure that Myka was going to thank him for that. Either sooner or later… and he was putting his chips on sooner.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original part 1 tumblr tags: I haven't really done this conversation justice, but I would have loved so much to have seen some version of it for real, because of their history, I think it could really have snap-crackle-popped


	2. Chapter 2

“I have some questions for you,” Helena says, and she looks ridiculously serious.

You say, slowly—because she’s been a little skittish lately, and you’ve been wondering what that’s about, but when it comes to Helena, finding out can be worse than wondering— “Okay. What kind of questions?”

“Well now,” she says.

Absurdly, a line of movie dialogue flits through your head: “Don’t start with ‘well now.’” Who said that? Pete would know, probably. You can’t remember whose voice said it. That’s unusual, and more than a little disconcerting. You blame Helena; when she’s around, she upsets not only your equilibrium, but also your perfect memory. She’s the only person who’s ever done that—given you a case of the anti-eidetics, that is. Plenty of people upset your equilibrium. But you try not to let that show.

She says it again: “Well now.”

“Would you rather just write these questions down?” you ask. “I could jot some notes in response, get back to you? If you find them so tough to ask. Or maybe you shouldn’t be asking _me_ in the first place? Is this about some pop culture stuff that Pete or Claudia’s going to know more about than I do anyway?” You almost hope it is. Anything that gets Helena tongue-tied is bound to be difficult on some level, and if Claudia could clear it all up by explaining… something about the history of punk rock, or podcasts, or reality television, that would be ideal.

“No, no,” she says. She shakes her head, more to rustle her hair in that frustrated way she does than to emphasize the no. Then she runs her hand through the hair, and you forget, for just a second, that there’s something about questions and asking them and why would anyone even care about that when you have Helena in front of you, drawing attention to her hair in that way that she absolutely knows drives you absolutely wild?

You shrug internally: nothing to be done. So you lean over and kiss her, just once, just briefly, and she smiles. It’s one of those “only for Myka” smiles that you get increasingly regularly these days. Those, you remember. Every single one. “Feel better?” you ask.

“Why, yes,” she says, still smiling. Then she laughs, and you quirk an eyebrow in question. She says, “It’s just that it isn’t unrelated. To the topic of my questions.”

“You have questions about kissing?” you ask, genuinely befuddled.

“In a sense. In actuality, I have questions about… well, I suppose it could be said that I have questions about your feelings about it.”

“You have questions about my feelings about kissing.” You suppose you will never really understand her, because she was born in the 1800s and you were not, because she built a time machine and you did not, because she lived a hundred years in bronze and you did not. “All right,” you sigh. “What are these questions?”

She sighs right back. “The first is, and I hope I already know the answer, would you like it to continue?”

“Right now? I’d be fine with that.” You can’t help but smile, because you would, in fact, be more than fine with it. It would be a little easier if she would angle her body a tiny bit more to the right, but asking her to do so seems kind of picky…

“Well, yes, right now would be delightful, but I actually meant, in the future. Almost… in perpetuity, as it were.”

“Would I like to continue kissing you in the future? In perpetuity?” You feel like an imbecile, repeating everything she says, but she doesn’t seem to be making any _sense_ , so you keep wondering if you’re mishearing her. You suspect you aren’t. You suspect also, in a way that defies explanation, that this is somehow Pete’s fault. You are getting, you think, something that strongly resembles a _vibe_.

“That is the question on the table, yes,” Helena says.

“Then… sure? Of course? Is there some other answer you’re looking for here? Because it’s kind of a weird question, isn’t it?”

Helena’s mouth begins to take on the shape of the earliest stage of a pout. “I don’t find it weird at all,” she says. “It seems quite straightforward to me.”

“You’ve had time to think about it,” you point out. “I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when you decided it was time for a quiz. A quiz about…” You gasp, just a little. “Is this a quiz about whether I want to break up with you? Does this have anything to do with that fight we had about the laundry? I think we were both just too tired to even try to talk about anything right then, so we both got more irritated than we should have, and, I mean, I’m really sorry that we fought, but I guess I would have to say that I’m not _entirely_ sorry about saying what I said, since I actually _can_ count on one hand the number of times you’ve folded your own clothes.”

Helena rolls her eyes. “Really, what _can’t_ be counted on one hand, given sufficient iterations?” she asks.

“Oh, is that one of the questions, too?” you respond.

She makes a very visible effort to get her temper under control. You actually appreciate that a great deal, because in the past, she’d have been more likely to follow up with another cutting remark; this time, she says, “That is not one of the questions. I apologize for saying it. I remember saying something very similar, when we were in the throes of the argument, and you were similarly displeased. So: no. Also: no, this is not a quiz about whether you want to ‘break up’ with me. I assume that if that were what you wanted, you would have no need to wait for me to quiz you about it. You would simply do it.” She cocks her head. “This is a strangely inverted version of something about which I was recently speaking with your esteemed partner. I posited that you were indeed the sort of person who would articulate her desires with regard to relationships and what forms they should or should not take. He disagreed.”

You’re nonplussed. “Pete thinks I wouldn’t say what I wanted? He thinks that if I wanted to break up with you, I wouldn’t say so?” Now you’re suspicious again: “And why were you and Pete talking about you and me breaking up, anyway?”

“That was not the point at issue,” Helena says. Now she sounds prim. God, what would make Helena get like that? What in the world could she possibly have been talking to Pete about? You start to panic, just a little, and that in turn makes you panic more, because you haven’t panicked in a while, which probably means you’ve been getting complacent. Too complacent. Like a cow, chewing its cud in a field, happy as can be, with no idea that your lovely evening walk through the grass tonight is going to lead not back to the barn but to a _slaughterhouse_.

You tell yourself to get a grip. That has never worked before, and it doesn’t magically start working now. “Okay,” you say, gulping air. You wonder if it’s possible to drown, standing still in your own room. You think about pulmonary edema and remember that yes, it’s perfectly possible to have your lungs fill with fluid, and just fall over and die from that, with no water in sight. “Okay,” you say again, though that’s so far from how you feel, you can’t believe you just said the word, “then what, seriously, _what_ was the point at issue?”

“Don’t interrogate me,” Helena warns.

You snap back to yourself a bit at that. “Why not? You basically started this conversation by saying it was going to be an interrogation; I’m just returning the favor. You aren’t the only one who has questions. I’ve got plenty of questions.”

“However, you seldom ask them,” Helena points out. “Not large questions. Only small ones. I’ve noticed.”

You consider this. You realize she’s right. You do avoid large questions. Most of the time, you’re so happy that you’re even in a position to ask small questions, down to “could you please pass the salt” and “where did you put the Farnsworth this time,” that you just can’t bring yourself to broach bigger ideas, such as “what, exactly, is our relationship status” or “is it at all possible you could love me as much as I love you?” You’re fairly certain the answer to that last one is “no,” but you concede in your own head that you haven’t asked, even indirectly, and that in fact Helena hasn’t actually done anything to suggest that she would answer in the negative. “I’ve noticed too,” you say, and it’s a small voice that comes out of you.

“It isn’t a criticism,” she says, very gently. “It’s merely an observation. But I will say that you may feel free to ask me anything. I apologize for the interrogation comment.” She seems to settle herself. “I will tell you what Pete and I were discussing, but you have to promise not to, as he would say, freak out.”

Aaaaand you’re back to panicking. “Is it something I’m likely to freak out about?” That she would even think to make you promise such a thing is so unlike her that you can’t stop your breathing from picking up speed, starting to get out of control. Where’s a paper bag when you need one?

Helena tilts her head back, as if in some kind of physical expression of disbelief at the absurdity of what you just said. The action exposes her neck, and you want to kiss it and end this whole stupid argument, or chat, or interrogation, or whatever it is you’re having. You see the muscles in her neck tense as she starts to speak: “That was to be the purpose of my questions: to ascertain the likelihood of your freaking out.”

“Will you please just tell me already? Whatever it is… I can take it. I mean, probably. Most likely. Because sometimes I think I’m tougher than you think—”

“We were discussing marriage,” she says, and you almost think that she said that word in particular just to shut you up. Or to get you back for irritating her.

You gape at her. “Marriage?” you squeak. You clear your throat. “You can’t possibly mean that you and Pete…”

At that, Helena laughs. She _really_ laughs, almost bellows, then she starts giggling like she won’t ever be able to stop. “Can you _imagine_!” she snorts out.

“Hey,” you say, a little offended on Pete’s behalf, “he’s a good guy. A girl could certainly do worse than Pete.”

“Heavens yes,” she agrees, teetering a bit now between giggles and tears. “He can be terribly charming when he has a notion to. But. My dear. No, I _could not_ possibly mean that I and your partner, no matter how much worse than he I could do, were discussing a marriage to _each other_.”

“Then why were you talking about marriage?” you ask. You can’t bring yourself to believe that Pete’s anywhere near wanting to get married again; he’s seen some women, but it hasn’t seemed serious at all. Maybe it’s more serious than you realize? It’s true that you and Pete don’t spend as much time together as you used to, but that was pretty much inevitable, given the Helena situation. Still, you’ve thought of yourself as being reasonably up to date on his life events. Which leaves only one possibility…

“Yes,” Helena says, nodding, “I see that you are beginning to understand. But what I should explain to you is how the subject came up: he asked me my intentions.”

“He what?”

“He asked me my intentions.” Then she seems to get that you heard the words the first time, so she clarifies: “Regarding you.”

You really can’t process this. “Pete asked you your intentions regarding me,” you say. You decide that this is a place of endless wonder in more ways than you’d thought possible. “Okay. Why did he do that?”

“Because, as he informed me—and you will see how this relates to what we were discussing earlier—you would never be the one to, and I quote, ‘do the asking’ in our relationship. And he informed me also that if my intentions were not honorable, then I should step aside and allow you to find long-term happiness with someone suitable.”

“Someone suitable,” you repeat. “Not… oh, god, not him, right?”

“Fortunately, no. Though that was my first thought as well, which I’m sure suggests something about something, but I would rather not pursue the idea in detail.” She pauses, though, as if she can’t entirely keep herself from thinking through the implications.

To stop her, you say the only thing you can think of: “So what did you tell him?” Then you realize what you’ve asked. You take a breath and hold it.

Helena just gazes at you. Eventually, she asks, “What do you think I told him?”

You hate it when she gets like this. Yeah, right, “I have some questions for you,” because god forbid she should just say what’s on her mind like a normal person. Then you remind yourself that you don’t actually want a normal person; you want Helena. More than you’ve ever wanted anyone else, and anytime you’re tempted to forget that, you should think about what it’s been like, these past weeks, to have her around all the time. And so, yes, there are things about Helena that drive you right up the wall and back down again, things that if you could snap your fingers and change… but she’s who she is, and that’s who you love. (You try not to think too hard about what she would snap her fingers and change about _you_.) So you say, “I know what I _wish_ you told him… or maybe I should say what I _hope_ you told him. Because I _hope_ you told him to mind his own business. If he’s so interested in people getting married, maybe he should be the one to do it. But not with either of us.” You add that last part just to make it crystal clear.

“I did try to tell him that,” Helena says, “but he was quite persistent.” She moves closer to you. This woman and her willingness to mess with your ideas about personal space… you had thought you had very clear rules about these things, and you knew, early on, that she was breaking them on purpose, to get you on her side. Which worked, but you had also thought that when things were finally good again, when there wasn’t any question about motives and who was on whose side, that she would start respecting your very clear boundaries. But no. She saw them and didn’t even care. And if it had been anybody but her? You suppose this is one of the things, one of the several things, that distinguishes this relationship from every other one you’ve had. You accept actions, behaviors, _invasions_ from her that you have never imagined allowing. She’s so blithe about it, but you know she knows exactly what she’s doing, every minute. And you also know that she likes being the one person who can do this to you, who can make you _not_ react; the one person who doesn’t make your defenses go up, the one person who knows all the passwords. She _is_ all the passwords. “Myka,” she says now, softly, and that’s definitely a password of sorts, because she so rarely utters your name anymore, “what do you _wish_ I had told him?”

You sigh. “If you don’t already know, I don’t think I want to tell you.”

“Oh, I think I know. Now. But I think I would like to hear you say it.”

“You just want to prove Pete wrong,” you accuse.

“A bit,” she admits, but she’s still standing so close. She’s practically talking into the curve of your ear.

“Okay, be that way,” you say, knowing how juvenile it sounds. “Sure, I’ll help you out: I wish you’d told him that you do want to marry me. Happy now?”

“Very much so,” she says, and then, with just the very tip of her tongue, she tickles your earlobe.

She is going to be the death of you. Despite the fact that she’s saved your life more times than you can count (than you can count on one hand, no matter what she says about that), one of these days she is going to do something like that and you are going to _drop dead_ on the spot. And _then_ she slips her arms around your waist, and she hugs you sweetly, like any normal person would do, and you think you won’t drop dead after all; instead, you’ll just melt.

You say, “You are impossible.”

“Well,” she says, “I think I’m actually more _improbable_ than impossible, but I can see how interpretations might differ.” She settles her arms around you more securely. “Will you give me a bit of time on this marriage issue? I hasten to add that you should not in any way take this as an indication of a lack of interest in marrying you. But this… I think this is one of those instances of my not having caught up with the modern world. I need to, as you are wont to say, _process_ it. Is that all right?”

For Helena to admit that she’s flummoxed by something modern (something of greater import than a paperclip, that is; she weirdly doesn’t mind stumbling over insignificant things) is really, really unusual. You feel a snap of worry that she might be playing you… but then you feel a greater warmth of certainty assuring you that that’s not so. You tell her, “I’m the last person who can criticize needing time to process, aren’t I? So go ahead and take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you’re done. And for the record? I don’t just want you to tell Pete that you want to marry me. I want you to tell _me_ that you want to marry me. And also for the record, I probably won’t need quite as much time to process the idea as you do.”

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that marriage equality is the law of the land in the U.S., this part is _so dated_. And that is _so delightful_.

When Helena has something to think about, she sets a part of her mind to do simply that: think about it. This has always been her way, but her immobile century further enhanced her ability to concentrate on several things at once. She has thus set a corner—a rather larger corner than usual—to work on the question of marriage. In this day and age, as opposed to her previous. Being a formal recognition of alternative, as opposed to conventional, relationships. And finally, and most saliently, as a way of defining her relationship with Myka, as opposed to their current arrangement. _Marriage_ , a part of her mind whirs, _marriage marriage marriage. Marriage?_

Helena’s discomfort with the question of marriage certainly has its roots in its conventionality; she knows that much. Her dedication to maintaining her distance from convention has in no way been mitigated by her leap forward in time. Legally, of course, the situation is much different now. She would not be signing away her standing, her very existence, as a human being by marrying. She would remain an economic and political actor in her own right. In that sense, the conventionality of the situation has become less of a concern.

But she is stopped in some way by the idea of autonomy, the extent to which each party must avow the surrendering of sovereignty, as it were. It is not that Helena believes she does not depend on Myka, for she knows she does, nor that Myka does not in some sense need her as well. But marriage involves a public declaration of the giving of a particular gift, that is, oneself, to another. Helena is grappling with the idea of obliging Myka to give and receive this gift. Helena knows her German; she appreciates the double entendre of “Gift,” as it applies to herself. She appreciates, too, the possibility that Myka would take on such an obligation in the way she bears so many: as a requirement of duty, as a consequence of a previously made commitment. 

What Helena does not appreciate is being forced to interrupt her thinking before she feels it is complete.

Pete and Claudia corner her in the hallway three days after her conversation with Myka. “So?” Claudia asks, in that way she has, as if she were going to break apart if she were to refrain from bouncing for one more second.

“So,” Helena says. She wants to run away, but there is in actuality nowhere to run _to_. The house is small, really, for the number of inhabitants. One cannot get away.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Pete demands. “Did you _process_ it? And where are we in terms of, you know, _event_ planning?”

“Yeah,” affirms Claudia, his chorus, “event planning. And when he says event planning, he means the big event.”

“All right,” Helena says. “I gather, Claudia, that your large friend here has shared with you what he and I discussed several days ago. Despite the fact that it is not your business, and it is not his business, and it has never been anyone’s business but mine and Myka’s. Correct?”

“Correct,” Claudia says. She is completely unperturbed by Helena’s severity, which is somewhat unusual. “And I am on board. But I have to tell you that we’re starting to think there might be something wrong with your central processing unit, if you know what I mean, since I’m not recalling hearing any big announcements from anybody. Or seeing anybody wearing a big-ass ring. Or walking on air. More than usual, I mean. Given that Myka’s been pretty happy since you got back. And you’ve been pretty happy too. All of which is great,” she adds hurriedly, “and I’m not trying to say it’s not, but wouldn’t it be even greater if we could throw rice at you?”

Helena knows, fundamentally, that they mean all of this in a completely different way than Charles did when he urged her to marry. His desperate attempts to descandalize her, and by extension the family, were based on self-interest. She knows that Pete and Claudia wish only for Myka’s happiness, and even for her own happiness (so long as that involves making Myka happy)—although apparently Claudia also wants a wedding per se, for reasons that Helena thinks she will most likely need to inquire about at some point. She thinks it would perhaps be better for Myka to do that. It would seem less intrusive, plus Myka most likely knows more about today’s marriage customs. Helena realizes, with a bit of a start, that she has not thought about a “wedding,” in the sense of a ceremony, at all; she has been thinking about marriage as an institution, and the implications of herself and Myka as married. How they might become so… that is a completely different matter. “All I will tell you,” she says to them, “is that Myka and I have discussed the matter. A bit. But apparently not in the way you think we ought. Yet again, I must point out: not your concern.”

“Come _on_ , H.G.,” Claudia groans. “You cannot be for real about this. It’s like Pete said he said to you: the two of you are obviously meant to be together. Everybody knows it.”

Not for the first time, Helena wishes that she and Myka could have met and conducted their courtship under somewhat different circumstances. Certainly it is the case that the fraught nature of their lives intensified, or rather hastened the intensification of, their feelings for each other, and that has been, in a sense, welcome, but the constant scrutiny under which they must now operate as a couple is wearying. It is almost enough to make Helena long for the time before Egypt and Yellowstone, when their affair was hidden from very nearly everyone. She does not really want those days back, of course, given her mental state then, but the privacy of it? How delightful it would be, now, to have that again.

“Claudia, please,” she begins, only to be interrupted by Pete.

“Look, I tried to tell you this before, but I think it came out wrong,” he says. “Because it wasn’t that I meant you weren’t good for Myka, or making her happy, even if you didn’t tie the knot next Tuesday, or at any soon time. I just wanted you to know that I—or, I mean, we—all really see the seriousness of this. Because of what happened. I guess I was sort of trying, like, shock therapy, so that you’d sort of look up and see the possibilities. You guys should have it all. And like I actually did say, you shouldn’t have to keep getting the side-eye from anybody.”

“You know what might be a good idea? For stopping the side-eye, I mean,” Claudia says. She’s excited again. “We could get you guys to talk about… stuff. In front of both Artie and Steve. And Steve could be all like, yup yup, they’re telling the truth all right, I’ve never seen anybody tell so much truth. Because Artie totally believes Steve.”

“You are both missing the point,” Helena says. “I do not care what Artie thinks about this relationship. I do not care, quite frankly, about proving the strength, or even the existence, of my feelings for Myka to him or to anyone else. Except for Myka herself, of course, but that is between the two of us. I will not be interrogated by Mr. Jinks or anyone—including the two of you—as part of some misguided attempt to make Artie see the truth. Or even as part of a project to open my own eyes about the possibilities open to two women, or to two men, in this fine modern age. It isn’t that I fail to appreciate that you care,” she says quickly, as Claudia’s face falls, “or that I want to keep anything hidden from view. If, or when, there is some announcement to be made, rest assured, Myka and I will make that announcement.”

“Okay,” Claudia says, still a bit chastened. “But could I ask you one favor?”

“Of course,” Helena says.

“Could you just not elope, please? Because we would all like to be part of celebrating you.”

 _Celebrating you_ , she said. Helena marvels at the use of language today—so ridiculous under some circumstances, yet so unexpectedly moving under others. But she will poke a bit of fun at Claudia, just for entertainment: “But we must elope, mustn’t we? For South Dakota is not, to my knowledge, one of the jurisdictions in which our marriage, should we undertake it, would be legal.”

Claudia just sighs. “It’s called a destination wedding, H.G. What we should really do is, we should all go to NYC. Oooh, or, better, we could all go to Seattle. Because I bet there are a ton of artifacts at the EMP we could snag either before or after the big event, and then Artie would have to spring for the whole trip. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“Bit of a busman’s honeymoon,” Helena says ruefully.

“Yeah, but cheaper,” Claudia argues. “Besides, Pete and Jinksy and I could do the actual snag bag tag, and you and Myka could be prepping for the wedding, or even already on your honeymoon. I really think this could work. Don’t you think this could work?” She turns and appeals to Pete.

He says, “I’d be happy to support the happy couple with some artifacting. But there better be some really stellar wedding cake in it for me, is all I’m saying.”

“As far as I know,” Helena tries, “Myka and I will not, in fact, be married anytime soon. So all this idle speculation, while entertaining, must remain… idle.” She is internally mulling the term _destination wedding_. She cannot decide whether it fits into the “ridiculous language” category or if it should instead be filed under “unexpectedly moving.” Rather, she cannot decide whether Claudia’s application of it to her and Myka’s nuptials, imaginary though they yet are, should be so filed. Destination wedding. She would, perhaps, rather elope with Myka, and to a far more exciting destination than _Seattle_. She has been there once before, and the dreary weather reminded her of London at its worst. Emerald City indeed.

Pete says, “But, see, what we’re doing here is putting ideas into your head, H.G. Like now you have to think about a location. Plus cake. It’s very important to think about cake. First, it’ll be in tons of pictures, and second, you’ll be wearing some of it.”

Helena pauses. Slang? No, he seems to mean it literally. She decides there is no help for it but to inquire. “Wearing some of it?” she asks, with as much “I am ready for anything” bravado as she can muster.

Claudia shrieks, “Best part! You shove cake in each other’s faces!”

“Sounds barbaric,” Helena says.

“It kind of is,” Pete agrees. “But it’s fun. I guess it used to be kind of a polite ‘here, honey, let me feed you a bite of cake’ and vice versa thing, and then it got out of hand.”

“As these things are wont to do,” Helena sighs. “Could we return to the polite version?”

“That’s really un-American,” Claudia pouts.

“I _am_ un-American,” Helena reminds her.

“You’re not all that un-American,” Claudia says. “You’re just not _an_ American. Which is different. Like, it would have been un-American for you to refuse to eat a hot dog on the fourth of July—but you, H.G., across-the-pond-er though you are, you ate that hot dog. You’re practically a patriot.”

“I suppose that does prove something or other,” Helena says, “because those hot dogs were horrific.”

“They were delicious,” Pete says, but Helena knows he would say that about any food, or food-adjacent, item. He does not seem to have encountered any yet that were not delicious in some way. She remembers him saying, of a taco he ate recently in Cleveland, that “it wasn’t the best ever, but man, that sauce was amazing!” And the sauce had been amazing, Helena had to agree, but she was sure then, and remains so, that their definitions of “amazing” were not at all similar.

“They were really gross,” Claudia contradicts, but cheerfully. “You’re a lot of things, Petemeister, but a master griller is just not one of them. Sorry to insult your masculinity like that.”

“Well,” says the masculinity in question, “me caveman. Caveman cook meat!”

Claudia says, “I think caveman should stick to nachos. Caveman makes an awesome plate of nachos.”

“I do, don’t I.”

“Also,” Claudia says, warming to her subject, “that salted-caramel popcorn you make is pretty stellar, if you ask me.”

Helena feels compelled to add, “That is, actually, quite good. And further, he opens jars of nutmeats extremely competently.”

“Speaking of nutmeats,” Pete says, “have you ever had a Jordan almond?”

“Way to bring it back to the subject,” Claudia nods.

Ha! She has got them for once. Something with which they thought to _flummox_ her, something they believed belonged to this modern age alone. “Of course I have had a Jordan almond. I have in fact had several Jordan almonds.”

She has indeed flummoxed Pete. “You know what Jordan almonds are?”

“Naturally. In Italy, they are known as a variety of confetti.”

“Confetti?”

“The plural of confetto.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Pete complains. “But, still, ha! Way to bring it back to the subject yourself. Because what _else_ do you throw at a wedding?”

Helena rubs her face with her hands. “Confetti,” she says through her fingers. There is just no stopping these two when they have sunk their teeth into something. In fact, she feels rather like a chew toy, being shaken about within an inch of her life but never dropped.

“But let’s bring it back to the food, because you can’t eat little pieces of paper,” Pete says.

Claudia says, “You know what’s better than Jordan almonds, wedding-candy-wise?”

“No,” Pete says, “because _nothing’s_ better than those, wedding-candy-wise.”

“Buttermints,” Claudia announces.

“You are out of your mind,” Pete tells her. “Sure, I’ll eat ’em, but a Jordan almond beats a buttermint every time.”

“Not in a fight.”

“Totally in a fight! A Jordan almond is way bigger.”

“But what if the buttermint knows martial arts?”

“Well, who says Jordan-almond-man, who by the way should totally be a superhero, doesn’t know martial arts?”

“Why is it Jordan-almond- _man_?” Claudia demands. “I think it’s Jordan-almond- _girl_ versus Buttermint Woman.”

“Jordan-almond-man!”

“Buttermint Woman!”

Helena is contemplating sneaking away. If she could just move backwards quietly enough, she could be in her room—or Myka’s, the closer one—before either of them is the wiser.

She commences her sneak. And she immediately, to her chagrin, yelps aloud, because she has backed solidly into something—no, someone.

She has backed into Myka. “Have you been here the entire time?” Helena demands.

“No, no,” Myka assures her. “I just heard people yelling about candy, so I came to see what was up. Naturally I figured something important was going on.”

“It is!” Claudia and Pete say at the same time.

Helena shakes her head. “As far as I can discern,” she says, “modern marriage involves traveling to a destination, whereupon a cake is destroyed and confetti engage in a duel to the death.”

Claudia says, “You forgot the rice, and the part where I’m a bridesmaid, plus there might be a few other little details we’ll let you in on later. But other than that? Pretty much.”

Myka touches Helena’s back, a soft, whispery echo of Helena’s earlier clumsy stumble.

Claudia tells Pete, “We are going to the Warehouse, and I am getting Steve to judge this superhero fight.”

Pete whines, “But he always takes your side!”

“That’s why I’m getting him to judge it.”

They leave Helena and Myka blessedly alone.

“They’re silly,” Myka says. “But they really do care.”

“I know it,” Helena says. “But perhaps sometimes their caring could be a bit more… internal.”

Myka chuckles. “I know. I also know that they don’t understand how sure you like to be. All they see is daredevil you. It’s okay, though; I kind of like being the only one who knows the rest of it. And here’s something else I know: when you decide you want to ask me the question, I’ll have the right answer.” She kisses Helena’s cheek. That such a simple, sweet thing can happen between them, now, after everything, is truly a miracle, Helena knows. That miracle in itself seems so much more than she deserves… _dare I wish for more?_ Helena asks herself. _Marriage marriage marriage_ , she feels her mind respond _. Marriage?_

She does not have the answer yet.

END (well, kinda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original part 3 tumblr tags: I genuinely think HG would need to get to a philosophical safe place regarding the issue, and that might take some time, but meanwhile, I think Buttermint Woman totally takes it


End file.
